Floating sandstone. Brass gates. Gardens that shouldn't exist. The kind of wealth that bought pretender status and didn't apologize for it.
It’s been a few hours since I was able to acquire Kay’s help, I walked a few miles watching the houses get bigger and cleaner, then scaled the outer wall of Damian’s Mansion now that the night colored everything black. I scanned his security measurements: Eight guards below, three on the balcony. More inside, probably.
The number didn’t really matter for my what I was about to do, as long as none of them looked up. And people from the Upper Terraces never do. .
His study window was open. Careless. Or confident.I slipped through.
The room was empty. Books everywhere. Maps. Wine bottles—some full, most empty. Expensive furniture that no one sat in.
And in the corner, slumped in a chair that cost more than all of my arena’s earnings and more…
… My target, Damian.
He didn’t look the way I expected. No pretender robes. No jewelry. Just a simple black shirt, half-unbuttoned. His long hair was loose, unwashed. Dark circles under his eyes like bruises.
A wine glass trembled in his hand.He looked... tired. The kind of exhaustion that made your eyes unfocus and your mind overly sensitive to external impulses.
“You two have so much in common,” Malgrin said in an amused tone. And Damian was in fact the first pact-bearer I have seen since that demon entered my brain.
"I know you're there," he said without looking up.
"Oh shit," Malgrin whispered.
I stayed silent. Glanced over all the exits just to make sure they were still there.
"Window above us, door on the left side. balcony on the right" Damian finally turned his head. Silver empty eyes met mine.. "Three escape routes. You're thorough. I appreciate that."
"You're not calling your guards."
"No." He drank. The wine looked thick in texture and dark.. As if he was sipping shadows. "I want to see what is going to happen"
I activated Blood-Sense. My eyes went black.
Two heartbeats. One human: fast, arrhythmic, exhausted. One other: slow, ancient, patient.
“That is Azrathel, his demon. Let’s say if we were to arm wrestle he would let me use both hands.”
I kept scanning him. I found something else. His left shoulder. Old wound. Deep. The flesh had healed wrong around something blessed. Divine magic. Still burning, even now.
"Interesting trick," Damian said. "The black eyes. Very dramatic."
"You have a wound. Left shoulder blade. Blessed weapon. Five years old. Someone tried to kill you."
He went still.
"The scar tissue is wrong. Azrathel's holding it together, but barely."
Damian's wine glass hit the floor.
Shattered.
He was on his feet. Fast. Suddenly not tired at all.
"What did you just say?"
I deactivated Blood-Sense. "Your wound. It's…"
"Not that. The name." His voice was sharp. Dangerous. "How do you know that name?"
"Uh oh," Malgrin said.
I kept my face neutral. "Your demon. Azrathel. Demon Prince of Death and Shadow."
"Nobody knows that name. I don't tell people. He doesn't introduce himself. So how…"
"My demon told me."
Silence.
Then Damian laughed. High. Slightly unhinged.
"Your demon. Your lesser demon. Knows Azrathel's name."
"Apparently."
"That's." He ran his hand through his hair. "That shouldn't be possible. Your demon knows more than he should.." His eyes narrowed. "What class did you say?"
"Seven."
"Specialization?"
"Pain and entertainment."
Damian sat down slowly. "A Class Seven shouldn't know a Demon Prince's true name. That's... that's not how the hierarchy works."
"Want me to say hi?" Malgrin asked cheerfully.
I ignored him.
Damian poured another glass. His hands shook worse now. "Your demon. What's its name?"
"Malgrin."
"Malgrin." Damian repeated it. As if he tasted it. Then his eyes went red. Suddenly. Azrathel's voice came out. Layered, deep and ancient.I don’t think Damian had a say in that switch.
"Malgrin the Critic. We've met. Briefly. Three hundred years ago. You were assigned to show us the Blood Pact War."
"OH SHIT HE REMEMBERS!" Malgrin squeaked. "Tell him I said hi! No wait, don't say anything!"
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The red faded. Damian's voice returned. "Azrathel says your demon is... an unusual case. Older than his classification suggests."
"How old?"
"He won't say. But now he is laughing loudly." Damian rubbed his temples. "Great. Now I can’t hear my own voice while I talk."
I almost felt bad for him.
"You came here for a reason," Damian said. "Not just to demonstrate your knowledge of ancient demon politics."
"There's a conspiracy going on. Tomorrow night. They're planning to kill all three pretenders during the coronation."
He didn't react. Just waited.
"They want to open the Portal. The one the First Emperor sealed. They are going to use the chaos to break the Tear's binding."
"And you know this how exactly?"
"Research. Investigation. A very expensive contract with a blood-mage."
"Vekros."
"You know him?"
"I heard about him. He tried to recruit me once. I declined." Damian's smile was sharp. "I prefer my evil with better aesthetics."
"I like him, cool guy," Malgrin said.
"I'm going to stop them," I said. "But I need help. Resources. Access. Someone who can operate in public while I work in the shadows."
"And what do I get?"
"The throne."
Damian studied me. "You're serious about that."
"Yes."
"Why me? Why not Marella? She's competent. Or Ysolde, she is pretty. And she has faith."
"Marella would execute me the moment she learned what I am. Ysolde is..." I paused.
"Gone. Whatever she was before, the divine erosion took it. There's nothing left but scripture and gold."
"And me?"
"You're already damned, just like me. You've got nothing left to lose except your life, just like me. That makes you predictable for me."
He laughed. "That's the most honest pitch I've ever heard."
Damian stood up and walked to his desk. Pulled out an expensive flask, filled with that dark stuff.
"Let me lay out the options," he said. "So we're clear."
He poured two glasses.
"Option one: I turn you over to the Inquisition. Collect the bounty. Use the goodwill for my campaign."
"You won't."
"Option two: I will help you. We stop the conspiracy. I take the throne. What do you want in return?”
“You will need someone operating with your authority. Doing what you can't be seen doing. The shadow to your light."
His eyes flickered red again. Azrathel's voice:
"So you want to become my bloody left hand when I rule"
Damian's voice returned. "Exactly. You'd handle the ugliness. The necessity. The things emperors can't acknowledge."
"You can call it that.”
"But have you ever considered," Damian interjected, "That option three exists?"
"Which is?"
"We both die tomorrow when the conspiracy succeeds and reality falls apart, starting with that shiny palace.. So really..." He raised his glass. "we're already committed."
I almost smiled.
"Oh he's SO COOL," Malgrin said admiringly.
"There really is no third option," I said. “I put my life on it, as well as Malgrin’s. We will not fail, you will become emperor by tomorrow. If not, Azrathel can swallow Malgrin and me before escaping our world.”
"You're insane, you know that?"
"I think both of us are way past the point of sanity."
"True…" He set down his glass. He started smiling from cheek to cheek. I am bad at reading faces, but this must have been excitement. He stepped towards me and extended his hand.
"Deal. You help me take the throne. In return I will make you the bloody left hand of Zetun.
We both live or we both die."
I looked at his shaky hand.He was possessed. Exhausted. Possibly falling apart. But he was also smart. Honest. And he understood the math.
I shook his hand.
"One condition," I said.
"Of course there is."
"I renegotiate terms every six months."
He stared. Then laughed so hard he had to sit down.
"You're already negotiating the deal we just made?"
"Preventing future disputes. Professional courtesy."
"Gods." He wiped his eyes. "Azrathel was right. You're fascinating."
"SEE?" Malgrin preened. "He also gets it!"
"Fine," Damian said. "Every six months. But miss a renegotiation and the original terms stand forever. Understood?"
"Understood."
And that was it. Two pact-bearers. Both dying slowly. Both pretending to have a choice.
"Tell me everything," Damian said.
I sat down and drank from the cup. Surprisingly sweet. Then I started telling him everything I knew.
An hour later, I left the same way I came.
"That went well," Malgrin said.
"It did."
"The bloody left hand. Azrathel knows drama. I approve."
"It's just a title."
"Titles matter. They define relationships. Set expectations."
I touched my chest. Where the black veins were spreading.
"How long?" I asked. "Until I'm like him? Until I can't tell where you end and I begin?"
Malgrin was quiet.
Then: "I don't know. But Yozi, sincerely. I'll try not to erase you. If I can. You're more interesting intact."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's completely honest. That is one of my rare moments."
Fair enough.
I climbed down into the Sump. Back to Nyssara's safe house. Tomorrow we'd move. All the pieces. All at once.
Fifty-six hours remained.
The Emperor-to-be was drinking in the dark, listening to souls scream inside his brain.
Kayael was planning riots with his dead daughter on his mind.
And I was counting down to the moment I'd either save an empire or damn it.
Not really knowing if it will make such a big difference.
I met Nyssara and found out this night was not ending just yet.
Performance Rating: ????? (5/5) Malgrin's Note: "I cannot believe we just met Azrathel. Also, did you hear him? He remembers me! He called me 'The Critic'! I am famous in hell, kid. You should be honored to have me in your head. Also, you secured a royal ally by promising him the throne you haven't stolen yet. That is peak negotiation. I am so proud."
RELATIONSHIP UPDATE:
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Damian Carthros: Status changed to [Ally/Host]. He respects the hustle.
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Azrathel (Demon Prince): Status changed to [Acquaintance]. He finds us amusing. That is safer than him finding us annoying.
LORE UNLOCKED:
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Demon Hierarchy: Malgrin is a "Class Seven" (Pain/Entertainment), while Azrathel is a "Prince." He is class 6 by the way. I'll explain why when we get to it Just now: the power gap is infinite.
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Divine Erosion: Damian is physically falling apart. The "Old Wound" is holy damage that won't heal.
CORRUPTION: ████████?? (23%) - Stable. The wine was good. The conversation was better. But making deals with Princes usually has a hidden cost. Check the fine print later.